The Café
by jeweled inferno
Summary: One Saturday morning before Valjean has come back into his life, Javert covers a patrol for a sick officer. Étienne is opening the café alone for the first time. She rarely stops smiling; he wants some tea; and they would never have seen each other again if it weren't for a petty thief and a street gang. Features a humanized (but still with a long way to go) Javert. Novel-length.


**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Les Misérables**_** in any of its many forms, nor do I own Russell Crowe, although I do owe my love of Javert to his performance in the recent movie adaptation. Étienne is my own creation, named after the E# bell in Notre-Dame Cathedral. (#musicmajor)**

**Words: 2,581**

**Posted: 9/17/13**

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*** 1 ***

**Mademoiselle Runs a Café**

*** **_**Begin Again**_**, Taylor Swift ***

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Étienne Montpierre stood alone in a small room. A large bay window occupied most of her vision, through which she could see the dark sky, partially obscured by the backwards letters C-A-F-É printed on the glass in chipped maroon paint. She was surrounded by small tables—twelve, to be exact—each with two or three cheerful blue chairs placed upside-down on its surface. She turned to face the opposite direction, taking in peaceful pastoral murals as she did so, until a long glass counter came into view. It was empty at the moment, as she had yet to fetch her various pastries from the oven, back in the kitchen, hidden from view through a door in the back corner of the room.

She sighed and glanced back outside. Barely visible through the polished glass, the stars glimmered back at her. It would be difficult, she knew, this first day running the Café without the partnership of her aunt and uncle, but after the death of the latter and the illness of the former, she had little choice. It was still better, she knew, than the lot of those on the street, for although it was hard work, at least it_ was_ work, and she made enough to live comfortably.

In the distance, she could hear the bells of Notre-Dame ring five o'clock—for, though it had not yet been restored after the destruction caused by the Revolution in 1793, there was at least one person still living in the great church who rang the bells on the hour, every hour, every day.

She sighed and moved behind the counter, through the door and into the expansive kitchen. A large oven dominated the space; she pulled the heavy door open with ease, her slim arms flexing in a surprising display of strength. After removing the varied pastries inside and laying them out to cool, Étienne moved to the cold room and removed several towel-covered bowls, her steps steady and rhythmic as she moved to and from the kitchen table. It was hard to tell when she'd begun, but the sound of her humming grew slowly into the silence. Her fingers fell easily into the rhythm of kneading, and gradually her jaw dropped and the humming turned to quiet singing.

When the dough was shaped into light bread and placed into the oven, she turned to her pantry. It took only a few moments to gather what she needed to finish the pastries—jam on some, sugar and cinnamon on others, chocolate on a few, and on, and on, until she came back to herself to hear the bells ring seven o'clock. Humming quietly again, she carried a few trays at a time out to put behind the glass of her counter. The warm scent of fresh bread filled the air of the shop—she paused for a moment, closing her eyes and breathing deeply—before opening them and resuming her activity, pulling the chairs off the tables and setting them neatly in their places.

It was at this point, usually, that a young policeman by the name of Jude Rousseau would walk past the Café, staring longingly inside as he tried to catch a glimpse of the brown-haired, bright-eyed young woman who worked there. Mme. Étienne, knowing of this habit although, perhaps, not its cause, instinctively glanced towards the bay window, as she was a friendly soul and always returned his silent hello with a cheerful wave.

This particular morning, however, no one passed by and, dismissing that fact with a shrug, the young woman moved to the door, unlocking it easily and flipping around the painted wooden sign to indicate that the shop was open. The bells began to ring eight o'clock as she did so, and she smiled to herself, glad that she had opened on time despite her lack of assistance. She reached to the side of the door for the outdoor broom and, still smiling slightly, stepped outside to sweep off her porch. As she closed the door behind her, she glanced out onto the street and happened to make eye contact with a man.

He was an Inspector with the police, she noted as she glanced at his uniform, and he carried himself in a very upright way that was somehow not at all stiff. The man himself had dark hair and intelligent grey eyes, with a solid built that would have placed his head several inches above hers had she not been standing on the steps to the café. He looked proud, but his eyes as he looked at her spoke of pride from accomplishment, of knowing that he had done his job and done it well, not the kind of pride that comes with thinking oneself above others. His uniform was impeccably neat, from perfectly straight hat to polished shoes, and it seemed more a part of him than it seemed a few pieces of fabric.

In the moment that it took Étienne to notice this, the Inspector had in turn examined her, for she was the only soul within twenty feet of him and it was his habit to examine everyone he passed, anyway. She wore a modest pale blue dress and a cheerful apron printed with yellow flowers; her brown hair was tied back and her brown eyes sparkled with a natural happiness. She was relaxed and alert, and had the look of someone who had accomplished more by eight o'clock than most did in the whole day.

As he watched, she smiled and greeted him with a gentle, steady, "Good morning, Monsieur." Her easy greeting caused his more naturally blank face to relax into an almost-smile in return, and he nodded a greeting back to her.

Étienne's smiled widened slightly, but she turned her attention back to her broom and the steps in front of her little café. After the Inspector had passed her by, she glanced once more, quickly, in his direction. His steady gaze was now moving over the rest of the occupants of the street, noting, she was sure, every detail.

As she reentered her little café, Étienne thought that she felt just the slightest bit more secure knowing that the unnamed Inspector was out enforcing the law on the Paris streets.

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Étienne flopped gracelessly into one of her bright blue chairs, letting loose a forceful breath. A glance outside revealed a bright sun and blue, cloudless skies—the bells were about to ring eleven, and her café had emptied to blissful quiet for the usual break between the morning and midday rush. She knew she should be wiping down tables while she had the chance, but she didn't move from her spot. Although she'd known today would be difficult, she hadn't anticipated the burning pain in her calves, or the stress of waiting on seven tables and dealing with a line of customers "to go" at the same time.

The sound of the door creaking open, brought her out of her thoughts, and she glanced over, her mood dampening further at the thought that perhaps she wouldn't get a break, after all. Her spirits rose slightly, however, for no reason that she could recognize, when she saw the face of the same Inspector that she had greeted that very morning.

He glanced around the room when he saw the space behind the counter occupied, his attention quickly drawn to his left as a soft voice spoke up.

"How can I help you, Monsieur?" The girl he'd seen that morning was rising to her feet wearily, although she hid her tiredness well behind a warm smile. Her fatigue reminded him of his own, having just finished a four-hour patrol for an officer who had fallen ill, and he moved towards a table to sit down.

"Tea, please, Madame," he said in his calm voice. "And perhaps something to eat."

"Mademoiselle, please," the young woman corrected him gracefully, and moved towards the back of the room. "I'll put the kettle on and bring something out for you."

Before she stepped into the kitchen she glanced him over analytically, deciding what food to bring him. He wouldn't appreciate one of the fancifully decorated tarts, she decided, and the simple _croissant_, elegant as it was, did not seem to fit him either. She put the kettle on the stove-top as she had promised and glanced around the kitchen. Her eyes eventually fell on the oven and she bit back an oath as she realized she'd almost let herself burn the midday bread.

Moving quickly and carefully, she pulled the oven open and removed the various loaves held inside. She set them out on the counter to cool and eyed them briefly. A thick wheat bread studded with cranberries and sprinkled with cinnamon caught her eye and she smiled slightly.

Moments later, she stepped back out of the kitchen holding a tray with two slices of the cranberry bread, a tiny bowl of creamy butter, and a knife. The Inspector, who had been silently and somewhat ashamedly savoring the scent of fresh baking, looked at the plate with mild interest. The girl balanced the tray easily against her hip as she set its contents on the table in front of him.

"The tea will be a moment more, Monsieur," she told him with a smile. He had the fleeting thought that perhaps she did everything with a smile, but blinked it away in favor of responding to her statement.

"Thank you." She nodded, satisfied, but he continued, looking at his plate with not unpleased curiosity, "What bread is this, Mademoiselle?"

Étienne smiled again, for it was her aunt's own recipe and a favorite of all who tried it. "Wheat with cranberry and cinnamon," she told him. "A family recipe, and a favorite of mine."

He looked back up at her and nodded thoughtfully before thanking her again. She paused a moment before moving away, ensuring that he had no further questions for her, then stepped back into the kitchen. She left the tray in its place on the counter and propped the door to the dining room open before retrieving a damp cloth and moving back out to the main room.

The lawman was already halfway through one of his pieces, Étienne noted with satisfaction. She glanced around the room; her single customer had taken a table towards the right side of the room, where he had a decent view of both doors and the bay window. Otherwise the room was empty; she had already cleared and washed the dishes from her last wave and all that remained were a few crumbs here and there on the tables.

After glancing longingly towards the blue sky outside, she set to work wiping down the table in the corner opposite the Inspector. On occasion, she would glance towards the man sitting peacefully in her dining room and, on occasion, he would glance towards her. When she had worked about halfway across the room, she heard the whistling of the kettle through the open door to the kitchen.

"That'll be the tea," she told the policeman cheerfully, and, leaving her towel on a table, bustled into the back room without waiting for a response.

The bread had cooled, she noted, and would need to be taken out and placed under the counter.

Making the tea took her but a moment, and she soon made her way back to the Inspector with a steaming cup.

"Cream or sugar, Monsieur?" He shook his head and thanked her. She nodded in response, her attention drawn away from him as the door opened to admit a young couple. They glanced around and Étienne recognized the faintly lost look of a new customer.

"Monsieur," she spoke, addressing the man so she did not offend the woman by naming her something she was not. "Would you care to sit?"

"Madame," he responded, and Étienne let loose an inward sigh of exasperation. "We may sit anywhere?"

She smiled confirmation and the man led the woman to a table against the window. The woman, who Étienne determined to address as _mademoiselle_, smiled at him in adoration.

"I've hot water for tea, should you care for it," Étienne said gently, easing them out of each other's gaze. "The pastries from breakfast are still fresh, and bread for lunch is just out of the oven, if you should care for a sandwich."

"Perhaps water for the both of us," said the man, glancing at the woman, who nodded affirmatively.

"Very good, Monsieur," she replied. "I'll give you a few moments to think of your order."

The Inspector observed this interaction with interest, as he was always trying to gain new understandings of people and how they functioned. The café slowly filled, and the bells tolled twelve o'clock, but the policeman was unworried—as it was a Saturday, usually his day off, he had no duties after covering his officer's patrol. He remained at his table for nearly two hours, watching as the young woman ran her café with efficiency all by herself.

Finally, the midday rush had mostly passed, and the only occupants left in the café were the Inspector, an old man with his granddaughter, and Étienne herself. After fetching the grandfather a third glass of water, the young woman stepped back towards the Inspector.

"I'm sorry to have neglected you, Monsieur," she said with a look on her face that showed she knew he had not been troubled by the lack of attention. "Would you like anything else?"

Over the course of the two hours he'd been there, the Inspector had sampled four of her various loaves of bread and consumed three large cups of tea. She was pleased with herself, for he had seemed to enjoy everything she set before him, and he was pleased in turn, for he had observed a great many things in that small café and enjoyed deepening his understanding of the common man.

"No, thank you, Mademoiselle," he said with a hint of a smile about him. She smiled back, sensing that his subtle displays of emotion were not common and that his apparent good mood was, at least in part, due to her efforts. A few more words passed between them about price, and a few francs passed hands.

He stood to go, and Étienne blinked up at him, realizing how tall he was. On impulse, she spoke up, "Thank you for your business, Inspector…?"

He turned back towards her, face blank but not unpleasantly so.

"Javert. Good day, Mademoiselle…?"

"Étienne," she said, ever-present smile deepening slightly, making little wrinkles in the skin by her eyes.

"Good day, Mademoiselle Étienne," he said, a faint expression forming on his face that seemed almost warm.

"Good day, Inspector Javert," she replied, and with that he exited the store.

Étienne spared him a thought or two throughout the afternoon and evening, but otherwise did not concern herself with the man, who, although strong and kind, was of so little relation to her. Javert himself did the same, and thought that, given how impulsive his decision to enter the café had been, it was doubtful that he should meet the smiling waitress again.

Both were prepared to go on with their lives as though quite nothing had ever happened, and perhaps would have, had it not been for a man named Jacques Cordeaux.

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_A note on Javert:__ I know he's different from the book and the musical; I've done that on purpose. To understand him in this story, I'm going to offer some justification for the liberties I took with his character. First, we must remember that in both the book and the musical, Javert is not intended to be a full character. He is an embodiment of the law; an extended allegory for governmental justice and everything that's wrong with it. As useful and interesting as that is, I wanted to write a story about a person, not an allegory, so I've given his character some depth. He is kind and happy in the café and around Étienne because it is an honest, clean business and she is a kind, honest, efficient, and hard-working young woman. Of course, neither is perfect—Javert, of course, has a tendency to see things in black and white and has difficulty being merciful to someone if he thinks they dug their own hole, so to speak. Étienne is naïve and sometimes overconfident; she has other flaws as well, but I would rather you figure those out on your own as you read. I hope this has clarified my reasoning and helped set the tone for the story._

_A note on the ending (no spoilers):__ I hate sad endings. But I also thought that, the way Javert was (and, in the beginning of this story, still is), his death was the most logical way to resolve his part of the story. Of course, he didn't have Étienne, and by the time he walks to Rue de Plumet to let Valjean say goodbye to Cosette (if, indeed, the original story makes it that far intact!), I'm not sure if he will have retained enough of that part of his psyche to wander away towards the bridge over the Seine. And because I don't want to ruin the story (and also maybe because I haven't quite made my mind up about this yet), that's all I'm going to say._

_A note on music:__ There will be a song and artist named under the title of each chapter—it will be either a piece that I listened to while writing the chapter, or one that inspired the chapter, or one that the chapter made me think of. If you want some extra atmosphere as you read each chapter, put it on in the background. :)_

_Love,_

_EBL_


End file.
